Petrichor
by Dawnmoon76
Summary: "I'm stuck in a desert without any water. I'm stuck in London without my John." Established Johnlock. (Haitus but marked as complete.)


**AN: Just a warning. I'm american so if I get any vernacular wrong (though there isn't a lot in this) Then let me know. Also this is my very first Sherlock fic...ever. Let me know what you think! Sherlock and John knew each other before the series. I got this idea from Selena Gomez's** **A Year Without Rain.** **More from the music video than the actual words. One part was inspired from when the pictures were blowing around. The rest is because she's in a desert. Read. You'll understand.**

He's gone. The flat is empty. Many people could describe this as cold. This empty feeling. But me? I feel heat. A dry whipping wind. If it were cold then I would be numb. No, this? This scratches and burns. No water to soothe the cuts.

Love, when he is here is warm, the perfect temperature. Not too hot. Not the heat of when he is absent. Not the cold of a vicious fight. It is a night by a fire. Snuggled together under a blanket and enjoying a cup of tea.

I'm struggling but I try for him. For John. He's not here to dash off to chase the criminal. He isn't here for me to talk to when I need my thoughts out. He's not here to make sure I eat. Or to sleep. He isn't here to cuddle. He isn't here.

I'm stuck in a desert without any water. I'm stuck in London without my John.

-Petrichor-

I shouldn't have gone. It was barely a three. But I went. I went to escape, to try to forget the desert and just try to make the mirage in front of me real. The bodies were laid, no posed, on the bed. The one man had his arm around another. That feeling? A sandstorm came. Tearing down the mirage, the oasis. They laid together. Together. Dead. But together. They weren't being left to shrivel under the desert sun.

There were mugs. Tea. John made tea. But John isn't here.

I couldn't stop it. The walls to my Palace crumbled. Hot sand blew threw, sparing nothing. Nothing but John. Even then it grew stronger. John was safe though. I was taken home. No one knew what was wrong. Of course not. They didn't know about John. They weren't John. Images were in the sand, blowing by and forcing me to remember. I didn't want to. I wanted ice. I'd rather the numbing cold than the scorching heat. I sat. I was home? Not home. Not without John.

Mycroft? Of course. He worries, John worried, worries. Lestrade? Why do they get to be together when I don't get my John.

Tea...Mycroft tea, not John tea. Both is good but John's is better. John is better.

More sand forced its way through the cracks, the ever growing cracks. It made my eyes water.

John and I, the first day we met. I had a black eye and he had a bloody nose.

Later, before we were friends, I pointed to the real culprit, it wasn't John.

When we were pushed into the pool. I couldn't swim. John saved me.

Our first kiss.

Our first fight.

Our first apologies.

Our first real date.

Then,

Our last night.

Our last cuddle.

Our last dinner.

Our last hug.

Kiss.

'I love you's.

-Petrichor-

I woke up. Never knew I went to sleep. Mycroft was there. Lestrade wasn't. The heat came back. No sand. Maybe you can be numb in the heat. John is in the heat. But it's not the same.

-Petrichor-

Weeks(?) passed and Mycroft hasn't left. I wonder why he stays. He's trying to be John. Sleep, eat, hugs. No. You're not John. Though he never seems to hear. Maybe I can't talk. I think a case was solved. Yes, the CEO. Not the secretary. Silly little Yarders. Mycroft says there's a surprise. No. No surprises. He seems to hear me this time. Maybe he just knows. I don't want his surprise. I want John. I'm in a car? No, no surprises. Not without John, my John.

This desert is endless. I was told the end though. Wasn't I? I should have hope. I know the end. But how can I reach the end if I can't get past now? I am buried. The sand shallow enough to allow the sun to burn but deep enough to bury me.

Some one shaking my shoulder? No, not John, ignore. Why won't he go away. I don't want him. I can't take it. He acts too much like John. Why is he? He never did before. I don't want the fake. I want the real one. The jumpers and the tea. The fond smiles and exasperated eye rolls. The patience he has.

He won't stop! Make him stop! Stop! STOP IT!

...go away Mycroft.

 **AN: More to come! Stay tuned. Should I (A) do Mycroft's/Lestrade's (clearer) point of view. (B) Do "our first.../last..." and then the big resolution. (C) Do Mycroft's/Lestrade POV but then separately do a companion with the our first/lasts. Or (D) continue to ramble disjointly from Sherlock's POV a little longer then do (A, B or C)**

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 **-Petrichor: The smell of dust after rain. (Doctor Who anyone?)**

 **~Dawnmoon**


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